


you can't catch love with a net or a gun

by dickviolin



Series: crack and thunder [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Short & Sweet, Wedding Fluff, mentions of other folks, orthodox wedding traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:05:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickviolin/pseuds/dickviolin
Summary: blanket disclaimer for works containing sascha zverev, see notes for more detailsin the orthodox christian tradition, spouses are crowned during the wedding ceremony, symbolising their commitment to each other and the marriage.sascha and stefanos seem extra enough to include crowns in their non-religious gay wedding.
Relationships: Stefanos Tsitsipas/Alexander Zverev
Series: crack and thunder [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662028
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	you can't catch love with a net or a gun

**Author's Note:**

> hi,
> 
> as you are probably aware if you pay attention to tennis, olya sharapova, sascha's ex-girlfriend, has made credible accusations of domestic violence against him (including screenshots and multiple witnesses backing up her testimony). if you are likely to be triggered by things like that, i would not recommend reading her instagram posts/interviews with her; the details she has given are graphic, shocking and utterly sickening. 
> 
> i'm not going to take any of my fics containing sascha down. i don't want to pretend that i didn't support him for eighteen months before all this came out. i don't want to pretend that we weren't all duped. i want these works to exist as a record of the dangers of thinking you know anything about someone in the public eye. if we write fiction about people, we're actually just writing about characters loosely based on what people allow us to know about themselves. 
> 
> however, i don't feel comfortable writing any more fic about sascha. i don't want to receive kudos for this- please don't leave them- and i will delete comments if and when they are left. please respect that, and please don't read this fic. 
> 
> believe women. exercise caution. be good to yourselves and others. we are all fighting invisible battles. 
> 
> ~dickviolin

When Sascha comes in from the bathroom Stef is already in bed, his face lit up in blue by the laptop on his knees.

“I’m just replying to an email,” he says, before Sascha can even say anything. He has his reading glasses on, the ones Sascha say make him look like a grandpa. Sascha climbs in next to him and kisses him lightly on the cheek.

“Just an email,” he says.

“I swear,” Stef replies.

“Mm-hmm,” Sascha murmurs. He picks up his phone and swipes through Twitter. There are people in his mentions wishing him good luck. There are ten texts from Mischa, all best man panicking, _I can’t find my cufflinks, where the fuck are my cufflinks, OK it’s fine never mind Evi found the cufflinks_. Domi and Diego have checked into their hotel in town along with the rest of what Stef insists on calling the ‘wedding party’- Rafa and Roger are arriving tomorrow.

_Tomorrow_, Sascha thinks. They’ve gone from Stef posting the picture of the ring on Instagram, to the two of them realising that getting engaged means planning a wedding, to the wedding planner (a terrifyingly productive woman called Konstantina) telling them the wedding is only six months away, to the rehearsal dinner, to now, the night before, all in a rush.

“I can hear you thinking,” Stef says without looking up. “Stop it, you’ll give yourself worry lines.”

Sascha frowns and picks up his phone again.

** _Mischa Zverev 23:33_ ** _: why do we even need cufflinks lol_

** _Roger Federer 23:35_ ** _: good luck for tomorrow! _

** _Rafa Nadal 22:35_ ** _: I remember my wedding day…_

Sascha scrolls past that one. He’s heard _and when Roger turned round and see me, he started crying so loud his sister think he is sneezing_ more than enough times.

That’s it, though. Nothing else.

Stef snaps his laptop lid shut and startles Sascha.

“See?” he says, “One email. Don’t say I don’t keep my promises.”

(_I promise_ once made Sascha cringe. It meant believing a sick lie because he thought the end result was worth it. It meant bruises and welts and nightmares. Stef changed all that).

“Sascha?”

Sascha can feel himself spiralling. There are memories tugging at the edges of his consciousness and it’s too stressful right now for him to be able to fight them off. His hands go numb and his heart quickens and-

“Saschenka?” A hand on his. “_Lapochka_. Are you OK?”

Sascha jumps out of bed and runs over to the window. He shoves it open and sticks his head out and takes great gulps of fresh air. It’s cold and bracing against his skin. Below them is the sea and he can taste the salt on his tongue. Salt, wind, window frame under his fingertips. He can stay here, he’s strong enough, he knows he is, he won’t get lost back there, he won’t let himself.

“Sascha?” Stef’s voice behind him like an anchor. He fumbles blindly around behind him and Stef responds, comes to wrap himself round Sascha and tuck his chin into his neck.

“There,” he soothes, “There you are. Safe and sound.”

Sascha continues to pant but he can feel his heart slowing. The throbbing in his head is easing.

“Safe and sound,” Stef repeats. “You’re at home, you’re with me, it’s bedtime, all you have to do right now is curl up and fall asleep. That’s all.”

“I’m OK,” Sascha says, because he is. “I’m OK, it’s OK.” He steps back from the window and shuts it then presses his head to the cool glass. “It wasn’t a bad one. I’m OK.”

“Good,” Stef says. “Do you know what-”

“I was just. Everyone’s here and that’s great and your entire family is coming and it’s going to be one of those massive Greek weddings so we don’t have to worry about that and Mischa’s coming and Roger and Rafa and Domi and everyone that matters but-”

“Your parents,” Stef finishes.

Sascha takes a breath. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because- dunno. I don’t want you to think I’m not happy. Cos I am.”

“But you’d rather they were there.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, obviously.” Stef runs a hand through Sascha’s hair and Sascha turns round to bury his face in his chest, which is difficult, given the height difference, but they’ve long since found a way.

“I’m not ungrateful.”

“I know,” Stef says. “You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”

_Ungrateful little brat_ echoes through his head, _I would have killed to have the opportunities you do_.

“I just- they _know_, Mischa said he told them, he said he told them the date and that he’d sort out plane tickets and everything, but.”

“I know, _agapi mou_.”

“And it’s just. This is the most important day of my life. This is the _best _day of my life, and they won’t be there. And it hurts.”

“I know.” Stef kisses the top of his head. “You’re allowed to be sad. It’s OK. I’m sad too.”

Sascha says nothing for a while. Stef holds him tight and Sascha breathes him in. His boyfriend. This time tomorrow, his husband.

Sascha overthought every aspect of the proposal. For ages, he thought it would be some grand gesture. That Stef would win an Oscar for best picture and Sascha would somehow work it out with the Academy that he would be allowed onstage and go down on one knee and Stef would drop his trophy in surprise and it would be on the front of every paper the next day. Or that they would be in Florida, for some reason, and Sascha would blindfold him and take him to Coral Gables and then reveal to him, _look, Styopa, it’s where we met, I’m taking you back to the start_. Stef would have to be holding something to drop in surprise. A camera, maybe, but Stef would never forgive him for damaging equipment.

In the end, the opportunity presented itself quite naturally. They were in the kitchen and Stef was cooking, a glass of wine in one hand, a tea towel over his shoulder, and his smile made Sascha’s heart soar, and he thought, _I love you, I love you, I love you_. He had the ring and the box in his pocket, by chance, by happy chance.

“Stefanos,” he’d said, and when Stef had looked round with glimmering eyes Sascha was on one knee. “Um. Marry me?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Stef had said. “Obviously.” And Sascha had slid the ring onto his finger and they’d cried a bit and kissed a lot and had dinner, and Stef waited until the sunset was just right to go out onto the veranda and take a picture of his outstretched hand.

The gesture wasn’t, in the end, that grand. But it was just right.

(And the ring, by the way, was gorgeous, a Tiffany diamond the size of a baby’s head, because Sascha is Russian before anything else).

“Shurik?” Stef whispers into the top of Sascha’s head. “Do you want to look at them one last time?”

One of Stef’s relatives had said it was bad luck to see the crowns before the wedding, but she had also said that it was bad luck for the bride to see the groom before the wedding, and Stef had pointed out that if he saw a bride at any point that clearly spelled bad luck, so that shut her up.

“Yeah.”

The wedding crowns are beautiful, handmade, sterling silver, formed into the shape of twisting vines with delicate flowers. They lie, side-by-side, in a box for safe keeping, under the bed. Stef pulls away from Sascha and goes to pull it out, and lays the box on the bed.

“Tomorrow,” he says, quietly, and opens the lid. “Tomorrow, we’ll wear these, and we’ll get married, and no one can take that from us.”

Sascha wants to reach out and touch them. Make sure they’re real. Solid. That this whole thing won’t melt away. This life he’s built, the life he’s building, working every day to maintain and grow. It all feels so fragile sometimes. He has to work to believe he deserves it.

Stef takes his hand and kisses it.

“I love you.”

“I know.” It’s their routine. The familiar litany of it soothes Sascha’s soul. “I love you too.”

They look for another moment at the crowns. Then Stef takes the box and puts it away. They climb back into bed and Sascha turns the light off and they curl up together.

“Stef?”

“Yeah?”

“Does this mean I have to call you _mi rey_?”

“Do I look like Roger Federer to you?”

Sascha snorts and lies back.

_Tomorrow_, he thinks. Tomorrow will come. But today has its charms as well.


End file.
